The War

I rip the patch from its grounding fabric. I feel the threads snap helplessly under my fingers as they slowly surrender. I look at the patch. It no longer serves a purpose, black threads hanging off in every direction. I notice a fragile thread on the corner, frayed, crooked and hanging barely hanging on. I pinch it between my finger and thumb and pull it. The thread is woven all along the edge and I feel powerful as I feel the snapping, violent motion as it untwists itself from the patch. The black thread is long and curls around my finger, no longer the serpent curling the patch around its thin body. I ball the thread and throw it away – it no longer has a purpose. I examine the patch again. It’s free of the twisted black thread. All that remains are the tiny hole where the thread intertwined. The patch is cleaner, purer and I like it now. So I place it in my white box and push it under my bed.

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